A Hero's Guide To Not Becoming Your Enemy
by mecrazyfang
Summary: Post OOTP..Voldemort finds a new source of power to stack the odds and creates an Apocalypse. Aged Harry Potter returns during events of PS to advise Harry and change history. Black humour in a dark future. Harry x Luna, extremely dark themes later on.
1. Prologue

Prologue

A hazy sunset rested upon the charred water troughs of 21 Privet Drive. The front door lay somewhere in the kitchen, which had been re-located somewhere in the sprawling front yard formerly known as numbers twelve, fourteen, and sixteen, of Privet Drive, as well as the odd chunk of pavement lying about, and the gaping chasm that once was, presumably, the road.

"So, this'll really work, Potter?" a weedy, blond haired man, garbed in black robes that were stained crimson, asked. A strand of hair crossed over his closed left eye, nearly masking the jagged cut across the lid of it. Recently caked blood tinted his face, and his voice was hushed, as if expecting to be attacked at any moment.

"Unless fate exists, it'll work. If it does, though, your death will be in vain, Malfoy. And if that were to happen, _I don't know __how__ I'd be able to live with myself_!" a black-haired man shot back, chuckling. His eyes seemed to dart around constantly, aware of everything, whereas his left hand's first three fingers weren't even aware they existed, having rotted away. A black mould of sorts seemed to be creeping along his hand, having made short work of the most of his fingers already. And that ever-present scar on his forehead was dripping orange mucous.

"Remind me again, just what exactly are you two trying to do?" an orange-haired, decrepit old woman with round spectacles asked timidly, too shaken up by things to be her usual eccentric self.

"We're invoking several astral tons of ancient magic, every trace of residual magic within fifteen square miles, most of our own magical reserves, and Draco's ridiculously large life force, and activating more runes than you have crystal balls, in order to open a rift in time, and sending my thirty-five year old mind and soul back to advise my recently-turned eleven self. Hopefully, I'll be able to prevent things from happening in the first place. That answer your question, professor Trelawney?" Potter explained.

"b-b...but, but what if...what if it doesn't work, what if-" Trelawney started to ramble, before the black-haired man cut her off "'What if' doesn't matter. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. We have nothing to lose, any more, nothing to live for, no future left, only the past to try to fix. If we happen to throw a wrench into things, we list it under collateral!"

A few moments of silence followed...So, the boy truly didn't care any more. How saddening, finding that one's student had fallen so far, from the hopeful, bright young man he once was...The wars killed souls. The battles tore flesh. But it was the aftermath that destroyed minds.

He was just a victim of yesterday...

"C'mon, Potter, the shit hole awaits!" Malfoy called out, as Trelawney waddled off to a magically reinforced bomb-shelter amidst the ruins of shattered stone.

No longer did the street stalls call out their prices. No, they creaked in the wind, screaming their forgotten laments of the horrors the world had been engulfed in.

The bank held nothing but scattered limbs, some green from mould, others, from illness, and more, from birth.

The hospital harmed more than helped. What was once a constant rush of plaster casts, sanitary liquids, green spells, and potions of all descriptors, now held shrapnel from monumental battles, mines, from clever ambushes, and nightmarish creatures, sniffing the earth for the remains of the suffering patients, who had been vaporized long ago.

Yes.

The world should end.

Come what may, this ritual would change everything. For better or worse, nothing could cause more suffering than this...

It wasn't an existence any more.

Harry Potter was the hope for the past, just as Draco Malfoy had once been the hope for the future.

Whatever was accomplished, it would be infinitely better than the present. If another dark lord broke out, then nothing would stand.

If the monstrosities that caused all this were stopped, then nothing would stand in the way of peace.

...Except the ministry.

Damn bureaucrats.

The seer slunk into safety. Now, it was time to wait.

"Yay, back to waiting for my balls to drop..." Potter mumbled, as the two walked into the epicentre of a _massive_ array of runes, pentagrams, circles, and assorted trinkets.

A motley arrangement of archaic designs, crushed into a pattern, and held together with much tape, and more guess work.

It had to work, right?

After an hour and a half long chant of memorized incantations, both got into meditative stances, and slowly, the runes lit up with an ethereal, purple glow, starting with the outer rings. An arcane hum rang through the air, intensifying with each of these runes.

There were 4700 rings of runes, and each ring was spaced out an inch from its neighbour, and a foot out from the previous ring. That was the most important part. Never mind the chaotic array of pentagrams, crosses, foreign symbols, religious relics, historical artefacts.

Forget the moaning beasts, strung up and gutted alive.

Ignore the cries of the bleeding men and women, tied down to sacrificial posts.

Discard thoughts of pity, for their own familiar animals, ripped asunder, and used to bind pieces of the rituals together.

All that mattered, was the goal.

Nothing else existed, but the past...

By the time a mere hundred rings had been lit, both men were sweating, though Draco was gasping raggedly for breath, obviously completely worn out.

The blond gave a weary smile, and the life started draining out of him, as wrinkles formed on his face.

Four thousand five hundred fifty more rings lit up, and Malfoy collapsed peacefully, finally dead.

Smiling sadly, Potter focused once more, and quickly activated the final fifty rings of runes, except for the one remaining rune, right underneath him.

Pulling out a black, worn out, notched, scratched, beaten old wand, he flicked it once at the final rune, and a faint blue cocoon surrounded him, a more than slightly inverted shielding charm.

Looking on into the distance, Potter gained a determined look on his face, as he activated the last remaining rune with an incantation.

"_Now is the time. Death itself shall be the last to be conquered...Onwards, **Tuatha De Danann**._"

–


	2. How To Give Yourself A Headache

Chapter 1: How to give yourself a headache.

A scrawny, underfed boy, with a black mess on his head he called hair, reached out for his glasses on his side-table.

Only to find his centre of gravity, as well as control over all of his senses, had just blinked out of existence...His sight, which was poor to begin with, hazed out, a strobe light that fell under a piano. His sense of smell, assaulted by the staunch of accumulated years, was relieved by oblivion. His hearing, only ever strained by his own voice, or the screams of unwanted intrusions into his life, was not missed, only thought upon for an unnatural silence. His skin didn't register touch, which denied him the comfort of the floor underneath.

Which way was up?

Was he floating in some endless abyss?

Panicking, the boy's mind raced, and it barely registered that all he had lost was slowly ebbing back, a wave of calm, of self reassurance that his body was, yet again, under his control.

By the time he had slowed his breathing back to normal, he was perfectly fine, disregarding the near heart-attack.

"Wazzup!" the boy heard echoing between his ears, causing him to jump out of bed, reaching for…something, anything!

That triggered laughter from the exact same voice, ringing through his skull.

"Wow, was I really that skittish when I was this young?" he heard.

Right then, he gave up on trying to shut it up, and just waited for his uncle Vernon to come stomping up the stairs, yelling, telling him to keep the noise down, for the large man to slam his fists into his gut a few times, then to be left alone. It always went like that.

"Relax, kid, that big-ass bastard can't hear me." the voice placated offhandedly, the vulgar language feeling so alien.

'Am I going mental? Or maybe it's a wizard thing. Yeah, that's it! Hagrid probably just forgot to mention it, is all.' The budding Mage thought. Self-assurance was a beautiful thing, if you could convince yourself of a pretty enough lie.

"Nah, nothing about the famous Harry Potter is ever 'normal', even by wizarding standards. Y'know why? 'Cause you've got the most powerful dark lord of the century out for your blood. Yes, Voldemort! No, he's not 'dead', per say, true, his soul was separated from his body, but it has yet to be drug down to the depths of hell. That's beside the point, though." The voice rambled, confusing the poor little bloke further. Wizarding standards? Dark Lord?

'What _is_ the point, then?' he mentally questioned, as the voice seemed able to read his thoughts, scarily enough. Maybe he could keep the noise down, if it was all in his head...Yeah, he was definitely going mental.

"Yeah, I can read your thoughts. That's because I'm _in_ your head, and your mind is a scrambled mess. You are Harry James Potter, the son of James Potter and Lily Evans, 'The Boy Who Lived', the abused, neglected, eleven year old resident of the cupboard under the stairs of number four Privet Drive, under the care of your magic-hating Muggle aunt, and her husband. You are going to get on the Hogwarts Express, and arrive at Hogwarts, where you'll make loads of friends. You'll routinely clash with Voldemort, and he'll be re-incarnated in your fourth year, with your blood. Two and a half years later, he absorbs the power of the third ever dark lord, who had been sealed away before Merlin's time, and was partially released by an unknowing Muggle hiker. Then, the people who you went to school with, who saved you from a hell you know as loneliness, who mean everything to you, your best friends, your family in every way but by blood, your classmates, even your lover, they'll all die, one by one, and you'll be _helpless_ to stop it. In the end, Voldie goes mouldy, but why will you even want to live by then? So you'll send your mind and soul 24 years into the past, to advise your younger self on how not to get everyone killed. Been there, still doing that, not fun yet, probably gonna remain boring. Take my word for it…I mean, take 'your' word for it. I'm you, just, older, stronger, cooler, and not a virgin." The voice explained.

'…what?' was Harry James Potter's only thought. He was simply overwhelmed by a sea of foreign concepts.

About two minutes later, everything the voice had said finally clicked in Harry's head.

The voice told him the names of his parents, which he took forever dragging out of Hagrid, informed him of what was _going_ to happen, which sounded like some sort of horror film, revealed that it was _him, _a paradox in the makings, from 24 years in the future, which sounded pretty unbelievable, boasted of being stronger, quite understandable, cooler, maybe, and not a virgin, which Harry didn't understand at all, and said all of this _casually_!

...

'_Damn, _my head hurts!' Harry mentally exclaimed.

_U.N. Council_

"As leaders of our respective nations, we cannot let such powerful rogue elements be unaccountable for their actions." U.S. President Al Gore intoned.

"How can we identify them, though?" Canadian P.M. Steven Harper wondered.

"X-rays, perhaps? Or those American...MRI's, was it not?" Chinese chairman Zaou suggested.

The room, crammed with chairs, desks, and people, held a mood similar to an office, in some respects. Each member sat behind a wooden desk, with steel upholstery.

However, it held a tone of espionage, too. Every single person had an earpiece, which had a direct feed to one of five translators up in glass boxes, speaking in one of five languages. Each country leader was democratically elected, or led the public to believe such, and had an armed guard standing beside them.

The most important tone, was held within the inner circle, where the discussion took place. Anyone could walk down to have their word heard, but, in practice, only those who held Veto power actually did. These people could vote against something, and the action would automatically be rejected.

Amongst their numbers, China, America, Russia, Germany, and France held this power. Few others had even been considered to join their ranks, and, thus far, none had been fully accepted. Canada was close, but dealing with some...Internal problems, which held them back as a civilized society.

A polite way of saying that they were acting like barbarians, and until they improved, they did not deserve such power.

"I, chairman Masashi, suggest we discover more about this faction, and return to discuss it once we have a better understanding of the issue. For now, I ask that if you have any existing knowledge, to please speak of it, to give hints, clues upon which to begin investigation." the technical 'leader' of the U.N., only there to keep order, and address subjects, Masashi Keiji, a Japanese entrepreneur, knew not to phrase anything as even slightly demanding. His position was not very respected, as these people generally thought they could somehow vote him out.

None spoke, of course, since it was a simple UAV, an American invention for air-based reconnaissance, that had discovered a secret hundreds of years old.

But, as with all silence, the break held a slight jolt. And this break, like precious few others, was worth its weight in gold.

"I don't yet know anything...But I think I know how to find out."

The following discussion took the better part of six hours, and upwards of thirty pages of jot-notes, but ended quite satisfactorily for all sides.

"And that concludes our meeting for today, ladies and gentleman. Should you discover anything, record it seven different ways, and call for another meeting." Keiji stated. Finally, these people respected him...Took six bloody hours of picking a Pakistanian's messed-up head to gain that respect, and it'd probably be gone by the next meeting, but for the time, he allowed himself to bask in it.

He'd give Salahandro a call later.

A/N:

_Miserable computer lost ALL my data...Had to re-install everything. Now, though, I have several copies of everything, and am aiming for a laptop, as well, so such a ridiculous break shouldn't be expected in the future._

_Now, let's clear the floor on this fic..._

_It WILL be dealing with some mature matters later on, at appropriate time, in a reasonable context. Expect strong language, heavy description of violence, gore, sexuality, and several highly disturbing scenes, all of which further the plot, or the characters. Please, if you don't like my story, the little 'x' button at the top is an easy way to get it out of sight, and out of mind. Don't complain to me about my story being 'too mature', but work to become more mature yourself.  
_


	3. How to Traumatize Yourself

Chapter 2: How to Give Yourself Permanent Mental Trauma

Utter humiliation.

President Gore could express nothing more.

He walked into his own office, and, after five minutes of researching his own secretary, found that she was, quite clearly, a witch, who had graduated from New Salem.

Four of those minutes were spent staring in slack-jawed awe, while the first was occupied by perusing some official records. Which were open to the public. And repeated as online resource.

How the _hell_ didn't he notice it earlier?

Why didn't the Reagan administration deal with it?

Well, either way. He was the boss, now, and he was going to sort this out.

About ten minutes later, having gone through those same records, he called a meeting, to discuss an urgent matter. All members of his administration, and their secretaries, were to be present, or fired.

He then took his findings, and did what any good, paranoid fool, would do.

Photocopied the information, leaving a digital copy in the scanner's memory. Deposited the first set of copies in a safe-deposit box. Had the second mailed off to the U.N. for his next trip there. Faxed his wife the files, so he could collect it at home. Encrypted the files onto his computer, using the one password he refused to share with anyone. Burned a disc with the data, and labeled it 'asian porn', so as not to arouse suspicion, by wandering outside his normal habits. Finally, he sent himself an email, with the data attached.

Seven methods, each one completely capable of thwarting memory-alterations.

Satisfied, he sat in a meeting room, waiting for the condemned to arrive. Hidden in various locations, at his command, were three S.W.A.T. units, fully armed to incapacitate and/or kill.

The wizarding world would _not_ pull another one over him, ever.

Hell, he'd checked his _wife's _record, just to be sure...She was a 'squib', apparently, so he would be having a talk with her.

* * *

Steven Harper chuckled. As a non-magical leader, he obviously wouldn't be accepted by any of the Wizards or Witches in his country. Most of whom simply couldn't be bothered to go back to Britain in '85, when Canada became independent.

So, unearthing their heritages went a long way, towards removing many votes from opponent parties.

As Reform Party leader, he knew no limits in his quest to unify people under a single banner. As his country's least educated Prime Minister, having only a Bachelor's Degree in Economics, as opposed to the Master's most had, and in Law, no less...As such, he, Prime Minister Steven Harper, was merely a middle-class man, whom the public was confident in.

This meant that attacking the high-class magical folk, who were, in almost every case quite wealthy, would reflect well upon his political stance.

He was, after all, just another man off the street, with a fancy hat.

When, abandoning his idea of returning for a Master's, he had took Preston Manning's idea of the Reform Party, and ran with it, those short years ago, it quickly gained him a massive sway of popularity. Usurping the man's grasp was simple, and winning the elections, simpler still.

Harper shook his head, concentrating on matters at hand.

Looking into the Census, he found, essentially, a list of probable graduates of a local Wizarding School. Yes, he would send it off, with a small, polite request to confirm this...But how to send it...

By owl?

An odd way of doing things, certainly, but, clearly, not unheard of, if even half of what the Pakistan goverment's leader had said was true.

"Parker. I've emailed you a list of names. I want you to write them out, and send them to your old school, asking for confirmation that they were all graduates." he called out lazily.

"Sir, shouldn't we just call up the University of Vancouver, then?" the secretary had a fair bit of guile to him, that was for sure. How else do you keep your magic a secret from your boss?

"Wrong school, kid. The one you actually went to, back in '86...Now, off with you, son. Go find Peter - that's your owl's name, as I recall - and give him the letter." Harper just loved messing with people's heads. And, it didn't hurt that he had access to his country's dirty laundry...Made it a lot easier to surprise people, when you knew everything they had forgotten about themseles.

The boy fell backwards, reaching for his wand. What the effing hell was going on?

Harper, in a single stride across the room, stepped onto the boy's arm. "None of that. Can't have you hexing your employer, can we?"

"How?"

"Census lists all sorts of interesting things. Including level of education."

"...But..." he squirmed a bit, hoping to jostle the man's foot. No use. "I wrote down University of Vancouver..."

"And only one teacher remembered you."

"But-"

"No, you, according to official records, shone as a bright pupil, in various different courses. Unfortunately, being such a gifted student, it is expected that the professors would remember you...Only one did, and his mind was a tad addled...Oh, and your Elementary School records were faked outright. Winston doesn't exist."

"But..."

"Also, your High-school had a few odd discrepancies...Like the Vice Principal not remembering sleeping with you."

"How did you-?"

"Rumours follow you, kid. Hide things better, in the future."

"But I- Wait...Future?"

"You do good work, Peter. Frankly, you're a Canadian citizen, and that's the end of it."

"...You're, not, angry..."

"I own you, kid. If you piss in the wind, I dig this dirt up...So, stick your nose to the ground, and you keep your job."

"...I'll write that message right now, sir."

"Good." The Prime Minister raised his foot, and deftly flipped the wand across the room. "And keep that thing at home, if you could."

It was good to be boss, Steven decided, as he walked down the stairs, to find himself some lunch.

* * *

Harry screamed in pain.

Blood pooled onto the floor, rolling down his body.

His wrists chaffed from the cold.

His body lit up with agony, a pressure within him that only increased with the flow of life, steadily creeping out of him.

Being crucified wasn't fun.

His legs weren't simply crossed, as traditional, but wrapped around the pole multiple times, pushing the limits of his skin's elasticity. His arms were crossed behind his back, and pulled out to the sides, still reaching as far as they normally would.

He was tied, at the waist and neck, to a dying birch tree, with an Arctic-Forge bar of Iron stuck through it, which his wrists were tied to, with stretched-out nerves from his arms.

Harry James Potter sobbed at the indignity, cringing. Even tensing the muscles in his face, to breathe, hurt.

Shuffling, he hoped to snap his nerves, and free his arms, if nothing else.

Ripping, tearing himself to the very core, his wrists were no longer bound. A spray of blood gushed from his forearms, as expected, and his scream was cut short by how he lurched forwards, not supported enough any more. His windpipe had collapsed upon him, suffocated by the bindings at his neck.

The fluid, rather than spattering upon the earth, snaked around his arms, reaching out to the tree. Harry's life gave itself up to the pillar that restricted him.

And it grew.

Rotting branches soon glinted with an obsidian sheen. The tree fed upon his pain, misfortune, and even his blood. The malevolence, by now, was palatable. Harry couldn't simply feel it, wanting to drain him of all he was, within the intimate confines of his heart.

He could also feel it, by how the branches bent down to spear him.

How the hollowed-out bark drove itself into his haunches.

How his innards were ground into nutrients for this monstrosity's insatiable hunger.

How it made him into a mere husk, all contents devoured.

How his soul was conjoined to the tree, unable to be digested, but unable to escape.

"_**Failed. Do it again.**_" this voice was different. It was older, more hoarse. Gruff...Almost uncaring.

'But...' he voiced his protest.

"_**You are going to learn how to Occlude your mind. So far, you're stuck on the third step...Before you arrive at Hogwarts, you need to be fully adept with the entire process, or I'll have to take over, repeatedly.**_" quickly, he was shot down.

'...Fine...What's the point of this, again?' being eaten by an evil tree tended to make one forgetful of exactly why they subjected themselves to such treatment.

"_**Step One. Enter your inner consciousness.:"**_ Harry's elder self began his tirade. Step one, already accomplished. They were in his head.

_**"Step Two. Forego outside senses while inside your mind, fully immersing yourself in what is up here."**_ Already done. They were in his head, and he felt pain.

_**"Step Three. Learn to repel the influence of outside forces within your mindscape."**_ Oh, great. He was supposed to stop...That...From happening? He was helpless, in his own mind!

_**"Step Four. Learn how to manipulate your mindscape fully."**_ That would have come in handy, earlier!

_**"Step Five. Imbue mindscape objects, conjured and symbolic, with various properties."**_ Oh, like a man-eating tree?

_**"Step Six. Dismantling and safe re-location of existing parts of the mind." **_That didn't sound particularly safe...

_**"Step Seven. Make the ultimate in mental defenses..."**_ Yep, it was official. He was mental, for agreeing to do this.

_**"You're in here, and it feels real, while you're here, meaning even your subconscious has given the place **_**power**_**. Now, by learning to repel the influence of others, you make it **_**your**_** mindscape, fully, as you can reject false thoughts and mechanisms others might try to implant. This effectively makes you immune to your memory being tampered with, as well as removing the possibility of controlling you. Afterwards, you learn how to mess around with things up here, and make a maze.**_" the man was rambling, as always...Useful information, but...No pauses. In a mindscape, the boy supposed, one lost track of timing.

'What about getting out?' easy way to end the conversation. Get the sadistic cretin to let him out.

"_**We're doing this in one shot, kid. If you don't learn how to manipulate things here, and reverse it, then any damage caused **_**stays**_**.**_" oh, lovely. If he got sawed in half, he would die...So, with all that pain, did he, in his body, curl into a ball, or something?

'...Okay...Can I take a break?' a few minutes to check his physical state shouldn't be too much of a problem.

His response wasn't verbal, but it wasn't 'yes', judging by the glare sent his way. No, the response was...

Rivets smashed through his skin. The barrage, starting from nowhere, but reaching everywhere, kept him bolted in place.

'Why...Myself, years in the future. Back, through some paradoxical act...Why? To assist me - in what, dying? Why would he...Why would I hurt myself like this...'

With that realization, the effect stretched over to his older counterpart. Harry James Potter faced a wall of steaming fury, aiming at his past and future both.


End file.
